Thursday, April 12, 2012


Beware what is converging

In the dripping wax
Over a bowl of holy water:
A missed attack.

He pricks your middle finger
With a heated knife.
The blood gathers to a point.

Men can get bespelled to be dull,
To work harder without wonder,
Lulled to a life half-lived

Unless the local healer breaks
A crystal and the curse inverts.
He looks into the glazed mirror

Under yourself and myself.
Poets open doors to a deluge.
The albularyo does the same.

Be gracious as you touch his hand.
He will take risks to bring you back.
The cosmos is his hour.

Listen to your loss and take note:
Your task is to pray (and pay)
And oblivion will make your enemies moot

They will be hung in a dark room
Blasted with heat dripping blood.
They will die daft

In molten shudders like vermin.
But beware the albularyo's price.
Pain begets pain and hell

Always requires a sacrifice.

Christine Fojas
prompt: homophonic translation of Jacob Groot's "Lokaal Heelal." Albularyo is a Filipino term for local healer. Let's just say the original is a hundred times better than this.


alcarcalime said...

I love this, Foj!

fojee said...

Thank you! Never actually been to an albularyo, but I did go to a manghihilot a few times and they prayed over me with some pieces of paper, and gave me a super-painful massage, and had these crazy painful eyedrops for my eyes... never again...